


Satinalia Silks

by LutraGem



Series: Blood and Magic [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bondage, Explicit Consent, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Foreplay, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Light Bondage, M/M, Satinalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LutraGem/pseuds/LutraGem
Summary: Last night was Satinalia; Cullen gifted Dorian ten silk scarves, and was rewarded with the promised dance. Today, they have a day to themselves, and Dorian has an idea about how to use them to help Cullen relinquish some control.Brief references to alcohol, nightmares, lyrium withdrawal, slavery, Dorian's issues, Cullen's trauma from Kinloch Hold, and Cullen's past relationship with Alistair. Also, boys finding it hard to say "I love you".





	Satinalia Silks

**Author's Note:**

> Written after an idea for a Secret Santa piece came to mind, and drawing seemed a bad idea for my bad wrist. It then spiraled out beyond what I pictured, but I thought it was worth adding to the _Blood and Magic_ canon. This is the full, B &M-verse version; the version on tumblr is somewhat cut down to be less about the angst. It is set ahead of where the writing has reached as of Christmas 2017, but does fit in with the intended plot. Post-Cullen and Dorian getting together, obviously.
> 
> I wrote this in a day, and it hasn't been checked. I also tried writing it in the present tense, to see how it worked. Please let me know if you spot any mistakes!
> 
> Have a very merry Christmas/happy holidays, all of you.

Being Cullen’s lover has accustomed Dorian to waking early. He has always slept lightly when there is another man with him in bed, expecting to be sent away or even caught, but Cullen has never given him cause to worry on that front. Cullen is unashamed of him, and has never feared any stigma that comes from loving men, but he _is_ private. He treasures Dorian, treasures what they have together, and while he does not keep Dorian from their friends, he keeps what they have to themselves, and takes no heed of the gossip. No one dares disturb them once the tower doors are locked, save for a true emergency.

No; all concern concerning Cullen stems from the Order: nightmares, guilt, lyrium withdrawal, and an equal-parts admirable and damnable sense of duty are at the top of the list. All too often has Dorian woken to whimpers, or thrashing limbs, or even an empty bed and the glow of candles emanating from downstairs, when Cullen turns to work to distract himself from his suffering.

This morning it was a nightmare. Maybe the Satinalia revels last night brought it on: King Alistair had arrived in the morning, much to everyone’s surprise, and after the fuss of the formal feast he had joined in the merriment in the tavern, regaling them with tales and reminiscing with Cullen, Leliana and Varric. Maybe being faced with his former lover, or reminded of the time of the Blight, brought things back for Cullen; Dorian doesn’t know, but what matters is that the terrors have passed for now, and Cullen is asleep again, pressed up against his back, one arm slung over his chest, loose now that Dorian is no longer a lifeline to reality, his breath just managing to ruffle Dorian’s curls.

Dorian needs to cut his hair again. But it is so, so lovely when Cullen catches the short locks above the nape of his neck to tilt his head back to kiss him, or when he buries and tangles his calloused fingers in his quiff while Dorian sucks him off.

Maybe Dorian will grow it out.

When Cullen’s breathing shifts, and his muscles gradually tighten as he returns to the waking world, Dorian stays still, waiting to see what Cullen will do. He has a suspicion that there will be an argument.

Cullen lingers a few minutes longer, perhaps still in that dozy place between sleep and wakefulness, or perhaps formulating his plans for the day, before he tries to extricate himself from around Dorian.

“No,” Dorian murmurs, clamping his arm down over Cullen’s, trapping it.

“Good morning to you, too,” comes the mildly exasperated, amused reply. Cullen’s voice is hoarse from his gasping cries of pleasure last night, and he punctuates the greeting with a kiss to the crown of Dorian’s head. Dorian cannot help but close his eyes and smile. “Are you going to let me go?”

“No,” Dorian repeats, shuffling back into Cullen’s delightfully naked body. “Unless you promise me that you are not going to work.”

Cullen’s body tenses, and not in the good, reflexive way it does when arse meets dick. Cullen is quiet, and then his hand fumbles for Dorian’s. He starts rubbing circles into Dorian’s palm with his thumb, and Dorian knows now that the motion soothes Cullen’s nerves as much as it is supposed to soothe his target’s. “Dorian,” he croaks. “I should get up. I might be needed—”

“You won’t be,” Dorian interrupts. “Not only did the _Inquisitor_ herself tell you to take the day off and enjoy yourself, but so did your _king._ You’re not going to disobey a direct order from your monarch, are you?”

Groaning, Cullen protests, “He is one of the reasons I should be up and on duty! Today is the perfect time for Corypheus to strike: everyone will be hungover from the Satinalia celebrations last night, Al is— the king is here, and who knows who managed to sneak into Skyhold under the guise of preparing—”

“Cullen.” Dorian squeezes Cullen’s hand to still it, and wriggles his way around so that he is nose-to-nose with the bleary, frowning mess of a man who cannot even enjoy mandatory time off. “You planned for that contingency a week ago. You have men on standby, mollified by the promise that when Corypheus is dead everyone can get shitfaced to their hearts’ content. King Alistair is a formidable warrior in his own right, and has his own guards and mabari hounds. And Leliana _knows_. She always knows.” He pauses to kiss Cullen, and is met by a familiar solidity that Cullen employs when he is focused on work or worries. “So please, _amatus_ , stay. Relax. You aren’t on duty today. We’ve never had a day to ourselves before, and who knows when we’ll have the chance again?”

The unspoken ‘or whether we’ll have the chance again’ twists Cullen’s face, and still the man cannot let go. “But what if there’s an assault on—?”

“Then I shall cast fireballs out of the window,” Dorian replies breezily, “while you put on your armour, and then once I am dressed I shall join you and fight by your side until such time as we are parted.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and they sound too much like a vow, like a commitment, but he swallows down the urge to take them back, to spit out a lie to diminish his sincerity. Romantic cliché or not, he means what he said. Instead, he stares at Cullen, whose golden eyes are wide and reverent, as though he understands what Dorian cannot say yet except with his body, with careless yet genuine promises, and with a Tevene endearment he had never thought he would use in earnest.

Cullen’s hands rise, trembling, to Dorian’s face, and his fingertips caress his cheekbones; his thumbs smooth down his doubtless bed-mussed moustache. The sight, the tenderness, is almost too much for Dorian to bear. The scarred lips part, and the whisper of, “Promise?” is almost too quiet to hear.

But not quite.

“I promise.”

This time, Cullen kisses him, and gone is the stubborn stiffness of lips determined not to part, replaced by gentleness, softness, warmth that lights the fires of Dorian’s own affection in his chest. To say that the kiss lacks passion would be a lie, but its intent is simple and innocent.

Dorian’s intents are a little less pure, and as his hands reach down, Cullen pulls away, laughing. “Really, though, I do need to get out of bed to piss. And I’m hungry.”

Dorian rolls onto his back dramatically, and waves Cullen away with a tragic sigh. “If you must.”

“Think on how you want to spend today,” suggests Cullen as he rises from the bed. “We can share ideas over breakfast.”

“I already have a few,” replies Dorian, propping himself up onto his elbows so that he can admire Cullen’s backside while he walks away. He averts his eyes as Cullen disappears behind the screen that hides the chamber pot and washbasin, and surveys the room.

Scattered across the floor and the end of the bed are the black and golden silk scarves that Cullen gifted him last night for Satinalia. Dorian reaches down to snag one that has fallen at his side of the bed and picks it up, inspecting the material; past midnight, after a few drinks and with the light long gone, Dorian had been more interested in showing Cullen the dance by candlelight, in watching Cullen grow hard, in watching Cullen resist the urge to touch himself for as long as he could so that he could keep his eyes on Dorian. The scarves had been the last thing on Dorian’s mind by the time he was straddling Cullen’s lap and the last one had been discarded.

The golden detailing is exquisite, the patterns familiar. Clean lines, geometric shapes, serpents, dragons: all typical of Imperial fashion. Typical of Dorian. He suspects that Josephine was involved in procuring these, but thinks it likely that slaves had some part in their making. That thought makes him feel a little unwell.

“Do you like them?” asks Cullen, emerging from behind the screen, towelling his hands dry. When Dorian nods, Cullen goes on, “I asked Krem if he could do it, but he said that what I wanted was beyond him. He thought that maybe his father could do it, but since he’s a slave now…”

“Anything you paid him would go to his master.” Of course.

Cullen begins to collect up the scarves that dropped further from the bed. “In the end, I asked Josephine to reach out to your friend, Magister Tilani. She was able to recommend a tailor who moved from Qarinus to Val Royeaux a few years ago. A free man.”

That eases the discomfort, although part of him cannot help but wonder what Maevaris made of the request. Dorian has not told her the extent of what he and Cullen are, beyond a short sentence in a letter acknowledging that they were lovers so he did not have to tolerate her displeasure at finding out through the rumour mill of the Magisterium.

Although he had joked about mutual domesticity at first, Dorian finds that the tiniest day-to-day things are the ones that fill his lungs with giddy light and air at the most unexpected moments. Since the return from Adamant, Cullen’s tower has remained the commander’s tower, but the room above the office – the roof repaired during their assault in the Western Approach, thank Josephine – has gradually become _their_ room. It is in the little moments, sitting on the bed, naked apart from the blankets wrapped around them, eating day-old bread and dried fruit and cheese, drinking spiced wine warmed by magic, talking and teasing and silent and solemn, that bring the words bubbling up in Dorian’s throat. Each time, he swallows them down, still afraid.

Once they have eaten their fill, they talk. They play chess. It’s the day after Satinalia, and they are off duty. They have time.

After Dorian loses his second game, he throws a scarf at Cullen’s face in mock annoyance, and when it covers his laughing face for a moment, Dorian has an idea.

They have time, but they should make the most of it.

“You know, Commander,” he says, setting aside the chess board and gathering up the scarves again. Cullen looks up at him with interest, probably recognising the careful levity of his tone, so Dorian turns his gaze to the fabric in his lap. “Given that you do find it so challenging to let yourself absolve yourself of responsibility, I feel that we should work on that. One simply can’t be in control all the time. It’s a very important skill, learning to delegate roles when one is…” His eyes dart up as he pauses, and he wets his lips, smiling. “…tied up.”

Cullen’s breath hitches.

Dorian’s smile widens, but he knows that Cullen has lingering issues. “Do you trust me, Cullen?”

There’s a moment where Cullen closes his eyes and drops his chin, and for a moment Dorian’s stomach fills with bile as he anticipates a negative. _Too soon, too soon—_

“Yes.” Cullen looks up and smiles at him, and Dorian’s heart stops for a moment. “I trust you, Dorian.”

His heart sets off again, this time twice as fast, and Dorian leans forward and kisses Cullen because what else can he do to tell him how much he loves him? Cullen’s mouth opens enthusiastically, and this kiss is full of heat and teeth and tongues, fingers grasping jaws and hair to crush their lips ever closer. Already, Dorian’s cock is getting hard, but he is determined to draw this out.

They have time.

He pulls away from Cullen’s lips and starts kissing and nipping his way up his jaw, right up to his ear. “Tell me the watchwords,” he whispers, and feels Cullen convulse with a shiver under his hands.

“Silver is go,” Cullen answers, voice already shaky. “Black is wait. Red is abort.” His stubble tickles Dorian’s ear. 

Dorian almost shudders, but nods into Cullen’s shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to use them if something makes you at all uncomfortable, or if it’s not doing it for you.” Then he pulls Cullen’s hands forward. “Are we good to go?”

“Silver.”

Limb by limb, Dorian ties Cullen’s wrists and ankles to the four corners of the bed with the scarves, so he is outstretched like a star. Dorian leaves him an inch of slack, so that Cullen can shift and relax, but he learnt to tie knots in Tevinter and although Cullen tests them, they do not give. Cullen’s interest is palpable – visible, in the form of his exposed cock – but so too are his nerves. His jaw clenches, his abdomen twitches, and his eyes are creased with apprehension. After each knot, Dorian checks in with him. Each time, Cullen answers, “Silver,” and Dorian kisses him, murmuring praise and encouragement into his mouth, his jaw, his neck. Each time, the tension eases until he moves on to the next limb.

Soon, Cullen is restrained by four scarves. Dorian holds up a fifth, and asks if he may tie it around Cullen’s eyes. Cullen eyes it dubiously, and Dorian softly explains how being unable to see heightens the other senses, and the anticipation of where the next touch will come can be as pleasurable as the touch itself. “But of course,” he adds at the end, “you can say no. Or you can try it, and use the watchwords if you need them.” He can see the indecision dance over Cullen’s face, and he smiles wickedly. “I can do plenty of things to please you just as you are.”

Cullen’s blush extends down onto his chest, and he nods. “Try it.”

Heat rushes down Dorian’s body at the acceptance of the blindfold, and his hands are almost trembling as he tenderly fastens the silk around Cullen’s eyes. When he pulls away, Cullen gasps and tenses, pulling at his restraints. “Black!”

“I’m here,” Dorian immediately assures him, putting a hand on Cullen’ shoulder to confirm that fact. “Let me know what you need when you’re ready.”

“Just— wait.”

Dorian waits. He watches as Cullen works his way through this situation, retesting each restraint, twisting his head from side to side, muscles tensing and bunching. He watches as Cullen masters himself, forcing each part of himself to relax. He watches as Cullen’s cock softens, feeling his own fading as he waits.

Eventually, Cullen exhales and whispers, “Silver.”

Before he starts, Dorian takes a moment to admire Cullen. Pink from the blindfold down, his torso is bared and worth appreciating, scars and all. Cullen’s hair is loose, blonde curls spilling over the black silk, flaxen compared to the gold threads embroidered through the fabric. Cullen is glorious, and Dorian is a lucky man. “Have I told you,” he murmurs, cupping Cullen’s jaw with his hand, aware of but ignoring the reflexive flinch, “that you are beautiful, Cullen?”

Huffing a laugh, Cullen answers, “If I am, then what does that make you?”

“Oh, you flatter me,” Dorian replies, releasing Cullen’s jaw and trailing just the very corner of a sixth scarf down Cullen’s sternum. Cullen gasps, and Dorian dips down to Cullen’s ear. “Not wrongly, but _amatus,_ believe me: I know beauty when I see it.” He presses a finger to Cullen’s lips before any protest can form. “Now – you seem to be a little tied up right now, so I hope you can delegate the responsibility for our pleasure to me for a little while.”

Cullen whimpers a strangled, “Silver,” and submits.

**Author's Note:**

> Beyond those horrifically awkward masturbation scenes in B&M, I've never written anything remotely sexy before. I hope that it was enjoyable, nonetheless. I'd appreciate it if you let me know if it was okay! I'm not looking for proper critique or anything, but you know, a little encouragement is nice, or else I'll probably steer clear of sexy times in future writing.
> 
> [That Cullen/Alistair fic is here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9070606), while [_Blood and Magic_ is here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3712204/chapters/8217799)
> 
> @Readers of _Blood and Magic_ : the next few chapters are on the way! I need to go over the 18k that make up Chapters 47-49 with Arthur, and then I need to type and review Chapters 50-51, but I hope to have updates for you by the New Year!


End file.
